Pity party

Pity party

The letters are all worn off of my weekly pill organizer, so yesterday I google ‘best weekly pill organizer’ and I have a google ad epiphany. Not really an epiphany- more like a shitty realization. I started seeing ads for retirement homes and articles about caring for the elderly. Apparently google thinks I must be shopping for a very old person.

And if Google thinks it’s unusual for a 33 year old mother to need a weekly pill organizer, than I must be really sick. More sick than my friends… I’m really sick of being sick.

If you want to come to my pity party, bring cake.

cake

But the cat came back the very next day

But the cat came back the very next day

This fall, I finally started to understand why people say it feels good to be alive.

My conversation with myself last week:

“It’s a good thing I haven’t told any of my newest friends about this “bipolar thing”. Maybe in a few months, I’ll tell them about how I used to be bipolar. Because now I’m not anymore.

It was just a postpartum thing and the meds rebooted my brain (and I’ve recovered from the childhood trauma, which probably wasn’t so bad anyway), so I’ll go off the meds soon and be awesome.

And then I’ll tell everybody exactly how I became perfect and they’ll all be happy and inspired. Because probably everybody’s a little bipolar really, I just chose to get help to deal with my tiny bit of moodiness that they thought was bipolar disorder.”

I was clearly starting to relax into being a part of my life. So, of course, (eventhough I didn’t actually stop the meds), I suddenly starting feeling like I was slipping away from myself. In a matter of two days, the part of me that was a functioning, confident, non-ruminating partner, slipped completely away. All that was left of me was a slow moving object creeping around my house looking confused and mumbling.

I could feel it coming that day- the way the wind changes when it’s about to rain.  It felt like a Harry Potter dementor was getting ready to suck the light out of me. I tried to run but there was no time and nowhere to hide. And then, it began, my new happy me was being quickly ripped from my body.

She tried to hold on but there was no use. The force was too strong. I tried to hold on to my yoga mat and keep her in, but I couldn’t save her. She kept slipping out. All that was left was the shell. It happened so fast and then it was over. I felt like I’d been pulled apart.

The fact that this shit comes back never fails to surprise me. I’m not talking about a bit of moodiness, I’m talking about what it feels like to die alive. To see your life in front of you and not be able to engage with it. No matter how silly it sounds, I can’t think my way out of this. I’m tied to the bottom of the hole, there’s no climbing out.

I took the extra seroquel right away. Two nights in a row. Twelve hours of sleep a night. Anti-psychotic medication and I’m feeling better. I’m coming back into my own body.

But I still feel scared. I feel on edge and not entirely safe. I feel like I was the victim of identity theft and I’m worried the theif still has a key to my house.

childs pose